


Talking to the Moon

by fancybeee



Category: Minecraft (Video Game), Video Blogging RPF
Genre: Angst, Author Is Sleep Deprived, Bird Hybrid Phil Watson (Video Blogging RPF), Gen, Heavy Angst, How Do I Tag, Hurt No Comfort, Hybrid Phil Watson (Video Blogging RPF), I Wrote This Instead of Sleeping, Mentioned Wilbur Soot, Not Beta Read, Parent Phil Watson (Video Blogging RPF), We die like Wilbur on November 16th, idk man its just angst, technically
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-26
Updated: 2021-02-26
Packaged: 2021-03-17 14:21:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 946
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29718495
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fancybeee/pseuds/fancybeee
Summary: Ever since Wilbur’s death, Phil didn’t know what to do. So, every night after the sun sets, he goes to a little clearing with a gravestone and no body, and talks to Wilbur, or at least tries.
Relationships: Wilbur Soot & Phil Watson
Comments: 2
Kudos: 9





	Talking to the Moon

**Author's Note:**

> Okay half of this was written at like one AM my time and so if it seems a bit wonky or the grammar is wrong, it’s because I was sleep deprived.
> 
> Also, I had this idea and immediately started sobbing, and I hope you do too! Have a good time crying :)
> 
> Title from Bruno Mars’s “Talking to the Moon”

Careful steps, quiet on the snow, led Phil to the place he could recognize through tear-blurred vision and through fog thicker than honey. He looked around the little clearing, as if anyone else would be there at that time of day, and located the polished stone laid on the ground, sitting down in front of it on his knees. 

He reached out to touch it, calloused fingers against the smooth grey stone, and he could tell that today wasn’t going to be easy. 

Some days, he could go and sit and simply relax, and other days, he’d remember everything he had done, and the reason this stone even existed, and an overwhelming amount of grief attacked him as he sat. 

He could feel some tears welling up as he looked up at the midnight sky, the full moon so bright it casted shadows, causing the shapes of leafless branches to darken the stone, almost making the etched writing unreadable. 

But Phil didn’t need to see it to know what it said. It never changed, and yet he sat here for hours at a time, wishing it would, wishing he could undo his mistakes. 

_Wilbur Soot  
XX96-XX20  
Father, son, brother and friend.  
Reliquum est condignum._

Phil muttered the exact words time and time again, wishing his son would have a better gravestone. But it was fitting, according to the people who had been his friend, it was fitting that his gravestone was simple and to the point, even going as far as to have “The rest is deserved” written on it. 

Phil could never quite place the feelings he felt at the gravestone, so he let it be while he sorted it out. Something in the back of his mind told him that he should have dictated the gravestone, but the more logical part of him reasoned that he was in no place, mentally, to do anything other than grieve, even days after it had happened. 

He let a few tears fall as he muttered a greeting. No one was there except for himself and the moon, so he glanced up at it as he spoke to it like his own son. 

“Hey, Will. I know I visit here a lot,” He started, deciding to unfold his large grey wings in the safety of the clearing. They still ached, deep in his bones there was a dull pain, and Phil never knew if it was after-effects of the explosion or the deep yearning to wrap them around Wilbur again, to feel the warmth the boy used to hold. 

“But, I really can’t help it.” He muttered, feeling the chill of the air against the tear tracks on his cheeks. “I miss you, so goddamn much, Will, and I’m so sorry.” His voice broke, and he wiped his cheeks, trying to regain his composure long enough to finish. 

“I wish it could’ve gone different, I wish you were still here with us and that nothing ever changed.” Phil’s posture slackened, and his gaze drifted from the moon to the stone laying flat on the ground. “I wish you could talk to us, and laugh with us, and sing us songs just like you always did back then.” His eyes slipped shut, and tears were falling freely down his cheeks now. 

He stopped for a moment, taking in a gasp-like breath, and he listened to the rustle of bare branches against each other in the cool wind. He opened his eyes again and rested his hand on the gravestone, careful, as if not to disturb the silence that enveloped it. 

“And I know you can’t come back, and there’s no point in wishing for the past to change, because it’s already happened and you’re already gone. I just want the pain to go away, Wilbur, I hate feeling like this.” Phil knew there was no stopping the flow of tears at this point, all attempts were in vain. 

“I don’t know why it’s so hard to let go, but I do know that I didn’t realize how much you were in my life, all of our lives, until recently. The little things- when you’d play your guitar in the living room, now it’s always quiet and no one wants to talk about it. When you’d have these little fights with Tommy and Techno, but all in good spirit, you’d never be mad at them, now I feel like they’re fighting even more and it gets more intense every day.” Phil was almost sobbing at this point, and he couldn’t see anything through the tears. 

“There’s only so much I can take without you, Wilbur.” He broke off with a whisper, drawing his hand away from the cold stone he’d had it rested on. 

He didn’t say goodbye as he stood back up, brushed off his legs, and folded his wings. There was no point; anyone who knew Phil could tell you he’d just be back sometime tomorrow. He went almost every night now, the weight of Wilbur’s death getting worse and worse every day. 

As if in farewell, the wind blew a little bit harder and a little bit colder, tossing Phil’s blond hair around for a second before calming back down. 

He stepped around the trees surrounding Wilbur’s Clearing, as he called it in his head, blurry vision and cold cheeks. 

He’d follow the same routine he always did, trudging back home through the nether and tundra, to arrive at his and techno’s shared home even after Ranboo had gone to sleep in his shack. He’d hang up his hat, and his cloak, only to fall asleep on the couch with tear stained cheeks and day clothes on.


End file.
